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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341660">reserving plots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourcheeks/pseuds/sourcheeks'>sourcheeks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:15:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341660</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourcheeks/pseuds/sourcheeks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark isn't quite sure what to make of the strange man in the graveyard.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeff Hardy/The Undertaker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>reserving plots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mark was inspecting the grounds the same way he always did. He had mowed the day previous and was just making sure everything was in order. He righted trinkets left on graves knocked over by the wind. Mostly there were flowers, occasionally stones or teddy bears. Sometimes it was different and Mark took note of these things, fascinated by them. A music box. A porcelain ballerina. A bottle rocket. A bracelet of soda pop tabs. He wondered about their stories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know you're the one moving it!" he heard a voice complain. He looked to the source, seeing two boys crouching at the base of a large tree in the cemetery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Am not! You're moving it!" The blonde sneered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Take this seriously, come on." The brunette sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curious, Mark drew closer. They had a Ouija board. Of course. He suppressed a smile. "Having fun?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ahhh!" The blonde jumped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi. We were-" The brunette started. Mark held up a hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You boys aren't the first. You won't be the last. Go on and have your fun. We close to the public in half an hour."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, thanks, dude." The blonde, whose yellow hair is marked with random splotches of pink and purple, relaxes and smiles at him. "Thought you were gonna throw us out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Public place." He shrugged. "Though I would have to kick you out if you weren't alone. Disturbing the other mourners."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having successfully spooked the boys to the point he knew they wouldn't try to hide out after close, Mark went on with his business. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He next saw the blonde at a service. He didn't seem to be a mourner - he was maybe thirty feet away on a stone bench, observing. Mark approached him as the mourners began to disperse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not sure that's appropriate funeral attire." He indicated the man's torn jeans and fishnet shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's black," he countered. "Hey, are you Bearer, or are you one of the sons?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question caught Mark off guard. "Excuse me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bearer and Sons Funeral Home. Which one are you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mister Bearer is my stepfather. My name is Mark Calloway. Groundskeeper." He extended a hand, which the blonde shook surprisingly firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jeff Hardy." Jeff smiled at him then turned his attention back to his sketchbook. "Do I have to leave? Am I being like - rude?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not at all. Normally we don't get visitors outside of services unless they're visiting loved ones."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Visiting loved ones… what a way to say it." Jeff chuckled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you have anyone buried here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah. Family is all back in NC, 'cept my brother Matt." Jeff closed his sketchbook. There was a Polaroid taped to the cover of Jeff and the other Ouija boy, the one who was presumably Matt holding a laughing Jeff in a headlock. Certainly brothers. "I just like cemeteries. Quiet. And pretty."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I understand. May I sit?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Feel free." Mark sat down and Jeff went right back to ignoring him, scribbling in his sketchbook. He left abruptly, not even saying goodbye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mark returned to the hearse, his brother was the first to see it. A folded sheet of paper with Mark's name written on the back, tucked under the windshield wiper of the hearse. It was a surprisingly skilled pencil drawing of Mark in his funeral suit. There was a scrap of paper that looked torn from a memorial leaflet discarded by a mourner folded inside as well, with a telephone number. </span>
</p>
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